Green Like Longing
by sithmarauder
Summary: America's relationship with England, from a child-colony with nightmares to the world's largest superpower. USUK.  America/England, America/pirate!England.


**Title: Green Like Longing  
Author: sithmarauder  
Pairing(s): America/England****  
Disclaimer: Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not (and will never) belong to me.**

A note: In this story, America is not initially aware of England's true name, neither is he aware of the names of the other nations, and he has yet to receive his own. I am very aware of the fact that, at the time, "America" was also considered "England", but really, what else was I supposed to call him? "Boy" or "Colony"?

Has anyone else noticed that America gets more immature as time goes on? I was re-watching some of the episodes, and America's decorum back when he was a colony (and his solemn behaviour whenever he thinks of the Revolutionary War) surprised me – more than a little.  
Either way, this fic was written over the course of about a week, using whatever spare time I could successfully utilize. I am ridiculously fond of the title, and I enjoy saying it out loud, but you may hate it, and I do understand if you do.

I wasn't sure of the rating, so I left it at a "T". If anyone thinks it should be changed, please let me know.

-x-

When England comes home that day, it's to an excited cry of "England!" as America barrels into him, blue eyes alight as the child nation envelopes him in a hug. The impact hurts a little, jarring injuries hidden beneath layers of clothes, but he doesn't think his young colony notices – America isn't generally one to read that far into things. He's just a child, after all.

But America does notice.

_He's injured again_, America thinks as he draws back from his guardian, wide eyes surveying the tired-looking man in front of him, focusing on the cut that runs down the side of his guardian's face – not fresh, but not healed, either. He's almost positive there are other marks, marks carefully hidden from him – the stuff England doesn't want him to see. With small, tentative hands, America reaches up to rest his hands at the sides of England's face, covering the mark with a slightly chubby palm. He doesn't protest as England lifts him into his arms, instead choosing to bury his head in the other's neck, something he always does when distressed about something, whether it be a nightmare or something far more inconsequential.

"When I get bigger," America promises solemnly, "I will protect you. Then you won't hurt anymore. I'll be your hero!"

"I'm fine, America," England tells him soothingly, but the older nation's body is stiff with pain, and it reflects in his green eyes – eyes that warm when they come to rest on him. "I promise."

America doesn't call him out on the lie.

-x-

"England!" America grins as England walks through the front door, placing the object he has been toying with down on the ground with care as he stands up and walks over to his guardian.

"Hello, America," England greets, his tone formal with a strong undertone of affection. The young colony grins again, but inwardly he feels like his insides are being crushed – England's hurt again. He wonders if England's been fighting with France again, or maybe with Spain this time?

America doesn't know what England does when he leaves him, and as the years pass him by, he finds himself wondering what his guardian does to merit the injuries he hides.

That night, America begs England for a story, and with a smile, the older nation obliges.

"Tell me the one about the pirate!" America demands, his blue eyes beseeching his guardian.

"Again, America?" England asks, quirking one of his eyebrows. "I told you about him last time."

"_Please_?" America asks, making his eyes as wide as they can possibly go, and giggling when England sighs and relents.

"Very well."

America always enjoys the stories England weaves – stories about elves, fairies, and other magical creatures – but it's the ones about pirates he enjoys the most. More specifically, it's the stories about the pirate Arthur Kirkland, whom, when begged, England admits to knowing fairly well. In fact, England knows almost everything there is to know about Arthur Kirkland, America thinks as he listens, eyes wide, as England tells him about how Arthur had recently gotten into a battle with the French pirate, Francis Bonnefoy.

"Did he win?" America asks, clutching at the front of England's shirt.

"Yes, America – he won." England's voice sounds faintly distant, though, and America catches on.

"What happened?"

"Francis got lucky," England replies, blinking as America whimpers in response.

"But he's okay, right?"

England smiles, exhaling lightly. "Yes, America – he's okay."

Later, after England has retired, America slips out of bed, the wood feeling cold and chilly under his feet as he moves across the floor as silently as he dares, coming to the door of England's room. Carefully, slowly, he pushes the door open, biting his lip as the structure creaks slightly. But England doesn't stir, so America slips in quietly, his eyes focusing on the large wardrobe at the end of the room. When he opens it, the first thing he sees is a splendid red jacket, the likes of which he has never seen English wear before. The buttons are polished and gold, and the cuffs of the white shirt that hands within the jacket are ruffled expensive looking. But what really catches his eye is the at that rests atop the shelves, black and bordered with what looks like gold, with large feathers hanging down. America frowns when he sees that the jacket is unmarked, though, so he pushes past it, questions reeling in his mind, until he comes to a pile of clothes neatly folded at the bottom.

A pair of pants, black, on top of another white shirt, stained with blood – blood that had been concealed under the vest England had deceived him with. America shakes silently, noticing a larger patch of blood near the stomach area.

He closes the wardrobe, perhaps a bit too loudly, for he hears England groan and stir from the direction of the bed. Before the older nation can fully wake, however, America crawls onto the mattress and under the covers, shimmying over until he can rest his head under England's chin.

"Nightmare?" England groans, his green eyes bleary as he opens them to focus blearily on America's blonde hair. The young colony glances up at his guardian then, noticing the way England's eyes shine with concern, and it makes him glance down quickly. Even injured, England cares more about whether America has had something as silly and trivial as a nightmare.

"Yes," America lies, trying to curl closer to the other nation, not in an attempt to seek comfort, but in a way to reassure _England_ that he's here. His guardian sighs, resting his chin on America's head.

"All right, then," the older nation says, his eyes – America really loves those eyes; they make him feel safe – sliding shut as his body relaxes once more in sleep.

Under the sheets, America can feel the bandages wrapped around England's torso, and he shivers.

_I'll protect you_. _I'll be your hero._

-x-

He's done a fair bit of growing this time, so much so that, when England walks through the door, he's visibly taken aback by the physical changes of the young nation he had raised. America grins, relishing in the fact that he is now taller than the nation who had raised him.

"'Sup, England?" he asks. Of course, England doesn't notice the way America's eyes search his body, looking for telltale signs of injury – no, America thinks, England's too busy staring at him in shock to do anything else.

"You've grown," England says at last, averting his eyes, much to America's disappointment. He's come to enjoy those eyes.

"Ah, yeah," America replies, shrugging his shoulders as England removes his jacket, hanging it on the rack. "Heroes can't be small, you know." But as his guardian lowers his arm, America's eyes zero in on what he has been searching for – a spot of red on the loose white sleeve of his shirt. Before England can react, America has reached out, seizing the other nation's wrist, though it is a deceptively gentle grasp.

"Hurt yourself?" America asks, watching as England's gaze shifts to the red spot with horror. England curses, and America raises an eyebrow – the action is something he is not used to his guardian doing.

"No, I'm fine," England says then, tugging his wrist away from America, as if burned. America frowns at this, childish glee tainted with an edge of unusual seriousness.

"But you're bleeding," America protests, the childish side winning out as he moves to block England's path. Still holding his wrist, the Briton glances up – an action that seems to pain him.

"I'm fine, America," he says, and his voice is so sharp that America steps back, shock in his eyes as England pushes passed him. His guardian has never used that tone with him before, unless America has done something stupid, which he knows he hasn't this time.

Later, when America is in his room, he puzzles over England's behaviour. Sure, he's grown, but it was no reason for England to get all prickly with him – he had only been concerned, after all. Who wouldn't be, seeing blood on someone they cared for? And America does care for England – the man raised him, after all, and still England continues to manage his affairs, keeping the other countries from trying to invade him, or taking pieces of him for themselves.

Yes, he's grateful, but he can't help but wonder when England's going to realize he is no longer a child.

Later still, when England has changed his clothes (America knows, for the red spot is now missing), he finds himself puzzling over this.

"Hey, England?"

England glances back over at him, pausing his actions, the tea in his cup going still.

"Yes?"

"You're not… mad at me, are you?"

England sighs, letting go of the stirring spoon as he walks over to where America is sitting, resting a hand on the young colony's shoulders.

"No, America, I'm not mad at you."

America hugs him, his breath ghosting over England's neck, and while England smiles at the familiar gesture, his eyes don't light up the same way they used to.

-x-

Sometimes he wonders if he really is still a child – a child who pretends to know everything while really knowing nothing. But it still doesn't mean he deserves the treatment he's been getting from England – it distresses him greatly; something he tries to hide every time England sends him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Rolling over, America buries his head in his pillow, his bed seeming smaller than it had last night. He feels confined, yes, but it's more than just that simple feeling – he misses the easy smiles and warm glow that England possessed around him, back when he had been smaller – back when he hadn't been just a colony, but England's little 'brother'.

He wonders, with a pang, when that had stopped.

A sudden groan interrupts America's thoughts, and in an instant he is out of his bed, his feet moving silently against the wooden floors of his home as he makes his way to England's room. He recognizes the sounds – the resonances of pain.

Opening the door, for once without his new-found brashness, America moves into the room, where England is moaning on the bed, his brow furrowed and his eyes squeezed shut as he pants lightly. Reaching out, America places a tentative hand on England's brow, and almost immediately England stills, though his breath is still laboured. America ignores the urge to glance over at the wardrobe and the attire he knows it contains.

"England?" America tries as his guardian slowly wakes. When England realizes that it's America standing over him, his green eyes snap open and he immediately tries to sit up, evidentially alarmed by the other's proximity.

"America!" England rasps, his voice sounding breathless. America's eyes find themselves drawn to the other's chest as it rises and falls, bathed in a light coating of sweat, his alarm growing as he notices the cuts marring England's skin. He reaches out, tentative, conscious of the way England's eyes zero in on his hand.

When he brushes his fingers against England's chest, against the cuts, he is surprised at the shiver it elicits from the other nation.

"I'm fine, America," England says then, refusing to meet his colony's inquisitive gaze. "Please, just… Go back to your room, Americ – "

"I had a nightmare." The lie bubbles out before he can stop it, and England freezes almost instantly, meeting America's eyes with a flicker of dread.

"America…"

"Please, England?" America asks, trying to make his eyes go wide – hoping that the old tactic will make the other nation bend, as it has always done in the past, when he was a child. He feels like smiling when England sighs and nods his head, shifting slightly so America will have more room as he slips into the bed, which the young nation does so quickly, watching as England lies back down, a groan escaping his mouth. America echoes the action, sliding under so that his arms can wrap around England's chest, resting his head in the crook of England's neck.

He ignores the way England stiffens at the action.

"… America?" England asks tentatively, sounding uncomfortable.

"What happened, England?" America blurts, turning his eyes up to meet his guardian's.

"It's none of your concern," comes the quick and ready reply, like England has been expecting the question. America's eyes narrow.

"Damnit, England! You're hurt, you're always coming home hurt, and I want to know what the hell's going on!" America says as he pushes himself up, his voice rising slightly as shocked green eyes turn to look at him. "You're surprised I noticed?" America asks sullenly, shaking his head. He has braced his hands on both sides of England's torso, curving his body to the left so that he hovers over England, close enough to see the strange flicker in his eyes – eyes that America is slowly finding himself fascinated with. Ignoring the strange sensation that sudden twists his gut, America bites out, "I'm not a child anymore!"

"I know," England says bitterly, the tone alone stunning America into silence. Mutely, the blue-eyed nation rolls off his guardian, sinking into the plush white sheets.

"England…"

"Just… go to sleep, America," England says, cutting him off as he turns away. If he feels America's arms wrap around him fifteen minutes later, he doesn't say anything.

America wouldn't know how to respond if he did, anyway.

-x-

England's secret is finally revealed to him many years later, when America visits Boston. He's matured since then, losing much of the childish edge he had once possessed – the other nations have seen it, he's seen it, and he wonders why England cannot. It is beginning to get on his nerves – the way England has been treating him like a disobedient child – but he says nothing, instead choosing to act out more and more, throwing inward tantrums when England's visits start becoming less frequent. This time, England only stays for a couple days. "Just to check on you," he claims. America clenches his teeth when he hears that, but he forces a smile onto his face and nods. When England leaves, however… well, America's curiosity gets the best of him.

America never forgets about the jacket – the jacket that reminds him of the stories England used to tell him, stories about pirates, treasure, and adventure – the stories about Arthur Kirkland.

"_His most hated enemy is the French pirate, Francis Bonnefoy."_

"_Why French?"_

"_Arthur is an English pirate, America. It stands to reason that his enemy be French."_

"_Oh, right."_

America's hands clutch the barrel tightly as he remembers, a frown on his face. He doesn't know why he's hiding behind supplies like a common stowaway, because he has lost track of England and is now rather irked. He feels tired and hungry, and is already berating himself for this stupid idea. His skin feels irritated by the dirt he has smeared on it, and his hair is darker from the similar treatment, though he supposes that doesn't matter much, considering the fact that he's concealed it under a hat.

What he really feels right now, in spades, is frustration: frustration at himself, at his inability to keep track of someone who should be relatively easy to find, and finally, at England. Lately, a part of his mind has been nagging him, taunting him, showing him flashes of something just beyond America's reach – freedom. He knows that he is no prisoner, not in the traditional sense, but America can't help but wonder what it would be like to be able to travel to the other countries – to be able to converse with them and build his own relationships, not restricted by England's preferences. The thought… fascinates him. He cannot help but dwell on it; he cannot help but ask himself that tantalizing 'what if'.

But perhaps freedom… perhaps it isn't the only thing that he feels is beyond his grasp.

For a moment, America thinks he catches a glimpse of green, but dismisses it – it's only his imagination, he… he thinks too much about England these days.

A couple hours later finds America inside one of Boston's many taverns, nowhere near drunk, but not without the pleasant fuzzy feeling that comes with ingesting alcohol. But he doesn't focus on it – he is too busy mulling over a name he has heard in passing; a name he has heard many times before.

"_What's the pirate's name? Is he still alive? He's not dead, is he?"_

"_His name is Arthur Kirkland, America – and no, let me assure you that he's very much alive."_

America takes another drink, shaking his head. England's people are hardly known for their original names – there can be hundreds of people named Arthur Kirkland, for all he knows. Still the ideas come, however, and he found himself ordering another drink.

"Kirkland, you bastard!" A sudden crash from the corner of the taverns causes America to sharply, alerted by the name, just in time to see an enraged-looking man pick himself up from the ground, hands clenched into fists. A low chuckle comes from the dark corner the man is facing, and America glances towards it with confusion, seeing a pair of boots lazily propped up on the table, broken shards of glass littering the rest of the surface.

"You bloody English think you can just do anything you want, don't you? My son was forced as a seaman onto one of your ships! My son, Alfred Kelsey!"

America hears the hidden man make another sound, this one sounding arrogantly amused at the man's plight. America feels his irritation stir once again – the accusing man brought up a point that America himself had been feeling indignant over as of the late.

"I do not know where you got that idea from, Mr. Kelsey. To live the life of a pirate was and is his choice," the man's voice purrs, and America inhales sharply – it sounds so familiar, and yet… he knows he has never heard it before. "Your son came quite willingly, I assure you; the call of freedom, if you would. He is such a pretty boy, too. He has the most _expressive_ blue eyes."

The angry man snarls something and lunges at the veiled implications, but before America can react there is a shot, and the patrons of the tavern are running from their seats, the serving wenches squealing.

The man stares at his chest in shock, watching as a pool of red spreads across his shirt – a classic reaction America has only heard about in stories. When the man topples over, the boots withdraw into the shadows, and suddenly all America can see is hypnotic green in the dim lighting of the now-sparsely occupied tavern.

The man, the pirate, steps out of the shadows then, and America's breath stops completely as he takes in the man's appearance: red jacket trimmed and edged in gold, ruffled front and sleeves, and a large black pirate hat complete with an elaborate feather. He recognizes the attire – it is the outfit he had seen, all those years ago, in England's closet. But it's not even that that clinches the pirate's identity for him: it's the eyes – those green eyes – set under large eyebrows that makes his mind shuts down completely. Because they're the green eyes of England.

"What're you lookin' at, boy?" England demands, but America's throat has suddenly gone dry, and all he can do is gape at the figure that had slid from the shadows so gracefully, sleek and arrogant, chin tilted up and eyes – green eyes, so familiar – narrowing on him.

"N-nothing, sir," America stammers, keeping his head down, his breath quickening because _God_, the man is _England_ and England's a _pirate_, and he's not just any pirate, he's _Arthur Kirkland_. A sudden wave of anger crashes over America, and his fists clench as a shock of betrayal ripples through him, igniting his senses until he feels himself becoming hyper-aware of England's presence – this side of England that he has never known; the side England has never deigned to tell him about in truth.

America ducks his head then, avoiding the green eyes that seek him out in the gloom, and thirty seconds later he can hear footsteps as England retreats. Shaking, America pushes himself away from the bar, stumbling out of the bar, trying to clear his head. England's name… England has a name? But he's… he's _England_, he "country", he's…

_He's Arthur Kirkland_, his mind supplies. _All those detailed stories, how England knew them so well… It's because they were _his _stories – they were about _him… But before America can make sense of that statement, he feels something grab his arm and spin him around, and he suddenly finds himself looking down into eyes so green they almost glow in darkness that has descended upon Boston.

"I saw you lookin' at me in the tavern," England says, and even though he is shorter than America, it almost feels as if he is far taller. America's breath quickens, and he isn't sure whether it's due to anger or the sudden feeling that sparks through his body, battling with the anger that still rages through his system. England notices this, and his mouth curves into a smirk. _Such a pretty mouth_, America thinks before he can stop himself. "Afraid, boy?"

America _is_ afraid. Very afraid. And fear and anger – anger that England _lied _to him – and surprise never mix well together. So he hisses at the pirate England has become – and perhaps always has been – and licks his lips, shaking his head, eyes narrowing. "A hero cannot be afraid of a villain."

When he sees England's responsive grin, though, followed by a low chuckle, he knows he's made a mistake.

"Ye reminds me of someone, _poppet_ – yer eyes are the same. Pretty, too; idealistic," England – Arthur? – says, stepping closing, and America finds himself silently marveling at the man's change in speech. It makes him feel… funny. "Yer both foolish though, make no mistake. Watch yerself; ye is still a child." England – the _pirate_ – turns to leave then, but America suddenly reaches out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. Before he knows what he is doing, he has pressed his lips to England's, relishing in the unexpected bolt of pleasure that courses through his body. He doesn't know why he suddenly feels a great flame of rage and desire spark simultaneously in hit gut, but when England chuckles and kisses him back, he does his best to ignore it, even when the pirate breaks away, winking at him before vanishing into the night.

Days later, as America lies panting on his bed, feeling sticky, dirty and tainted, he fills his head images of England's sharp green eyes and haunting new deportment as he rides the effect of his release, not able to get the feel of England's lips against his own out of his system.

There are no words for what he's feeling, or he isn't even sure he knows himself – God knows he shouldn't be doing… _this_ to the image of the man who raised him, but America justifies the actions by protesting that it isn't England, country and guardian – it's Arthur Kirkland, rogue and pirate.

But those eyes, those green eyes, ones that make him ache and bend and long… they're always the same, no matter the context.

-x-

"Sit up straight, boy – do not slouch!" England's snaps at him, his eyes glowing irately as America ignores him, instead choosing to fix his guardian with a lazy eye – one of arrogant defiance.

"I don't see why I should have to," America replies, lowering his eyelids slightly. It is so odd, he thinks, seeing England like he is now, without the pirate attire. So very, very odd. But the lies… they have only served to strengthen the growing needs America feels – the need and desire for independence, and perhaps some far more inappropriate ones that he refuses to think about this close to England. So he doesn't listen to England. Instead, he turns his head away, returning his gaze to the musket in his hands.

"I'm growing tired of your attitude, boy," England growls lowly, and America feels a small pang of loss somewhere in his chest – he hasn't heard England call him _America_ in a regretfully long time. America shakes his head, though, standing up, ignoring the part of his mind that reprimands him for the action. He has long since stopped listening to it, his thoughts too focused on ideas of freedom and independence.

"That makes two of us," America tells England, turning and walking out of the room, trying to ignore the way England's eyes follow his every movement in barely-concealed regret.

-x-

_England's skin is just as soft as I imagined_, America marvels as he removes his lips from the hand of his guardian, lifting his eyes to meet the stunned gaze of the other nation. England's whole body is frozen by this point, the top of his white shirt open – he had been getting undressed when he had noticed America standing in the doorway to his room, a serious expression on his face, and America remembers the startled look on the older nation's face as he turned to greet – or rather, confront – his colony.

"America?" England had said, green eyes – really, it was unfair of them to be that green, America had thought idly – registering the dominant emotion of shock. But America hadn't listened – he distinctly remembers moving forward, his eyes locking with his guardian's.

When he had finally reached England, America had paused, noticing – _really noticing_ – for the first time how much taller he was than the other.

_If he wanted, he could do whatever he pleased, and England wouldn't physically be able to stop him._

America watches England now, taking in the still-frozen posture, the eyes still locked on his, warring emotions swirling within his irises. Inside his mind, a voice warns him to stop, and he almost listens to it – almost lets the affection he feels towards England, affection borne from years of being his little brother, take him over completely. But then he catches sight of England's eyes again, and the childish love is shoved back by bitterness, anger, _desire_, and his growing need for independence.

"You have such pretty eyes, England," America says, reaching forward to rest a hand on the side of England's face, an action so reminiscent of many years ago. He can almost see a ghost of the laceration that had once been located there, healing over time, as most of their injuries did. "So very pretty. Does France think they're pretty, too, when he fights you?"

"A-America!" England snaps, but the way he stutters alerts America to the acute anxiety his guardian is feeling. When America presses his lips to England's hand again, exhaling lightly against the smooth skin, the other nation is quick to act this time. England forcibly snatches his hand away, panting slightly, and America feels a sick sense of pleasure at the action. He's shaken the most dominant nation in the world. Was this what power felt like?

"What do you think you're doing?" England demands, backing up, his eyes widening when he realizes that there is only wall to greet him.

America steps closer, hand rising again, this time to cup the base of England's jaw, tilting his chin up slightly. "Our positions have reversed since then," the younger nation murmurs before leaning down and claiming England's mouth in a light kiss, resisting the urge to moan from the action – one he has wanted to do ever since he had followed England that one night, so many years ago. "I think I almost like you _better_ with the feathery hat, _Arthur_."

That's when England flips, pushing him back, eyes flashing as he struggles to regain the composure he had once possessed so easily. "You… You…"

"Knew?" America returns. "You sound surprised. I followed you one night, you know. I'm no longer the child that's content to just wait at home until you return – did you really think I wouldn't get curious? Ask questions I knew you wouldn't answer? So I followed you_, Captain Kirkland_." He leans close to England's stationary frame, his mouth hovering by the other's ear as his hands move under the older nation's shirt, skirting across the skin beneath. "And I'm not afraid anymore, _poppet_."

The horror he sees in England's eyes makes him feel giddy, but some part of him warns him – no, _screams _at him – that he's taking this too far. It screams at him to stop, not to do this – to say these things. It breaks the barriers America closed around it, rushing through his mind, filling his head with images, memories, sounds, and touches. _England making him the toy soldiers, England telling him stories at night, England comforting him when he falls, or when he has a nightmare – England being there, caring for him, raising him._ But another part of America's mind snarls at him to ignore the feelings – England _betrayed_ him, he _lied_ to him; he imposed the tax on America to keep him in line, because without America, England loses a valuable asset. It tells him that, to England, America is just another colony – just another source of income. England doesn't love him; he just wants to use him. That's all he's ever wanted, and that's all he ever _will_ want.

_He loves you, America! _The first part of his mind screeches again, as if it senses its loss of control, but America ignores it, shutting it out and condemning it.

"I'm not your little brother anymore, England," America whispers, leaning down to lick the other's neck, his teeth grazing England's skin.

"S-Stop," England commands as America's hands move up his chest again, making him shiver despite it all. "America, _stop!_" He pushes America again, this time keeping his hands against his colony's person, refusing to meet the triumphant blue eyes that stare down at him. "Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" America asks, letting the bitterness seep into his tone as he shakes his head. "I want my freedom. From you."

"No, I… This is just a passing thing, you're… You're at that age…" England suddenly says, his voice growing sharp as he slides around America, and the young colony is treated to the sight of those eyes – _green, green, green like he can't imagine_ – flashing with anger, betrayal, defiance, _pure and utter sorrow_. "You don't know what you're saying, boy – you're still too young! I will not allow it!"

America glances up then, the light from the candles playing across his face, giving it an almost sinister look.

"I don't think you have much of a choice, _England_. I'm not asking your permission anymore. I'm no longer your little brother – I haven't been for a long time. It's time you saw that." He kisses England then, wrapping his arm around the other's waist to keep him in place, his other hand circling behind England's head, ignoring the resistance – ignoring the grief he can feel radiating from every part of England's body as his guardian struggles and realizes just how serious America is.

Inside, a part of him shatters, and he can feel England's emotions like they are his own – raw, agonized, gaping; bleeding freely like fresh wounds. Perhaps these emotions _are_ his own – his own from the side of him he can feel breaking, screaming out in anguish with every movement against England's person. But another side of him, a far more dominant and terrifying side, urges him on. And so America continues, moving his lips against England's, slowly, almost sensually – like a lover would. He holds him tighter, not allowing England to break away. He's prepared to do anything.

_I want my independence, after all._

But all he can focus on are those green eyes as they turn away from him, echoing with a tortured expression that America will never be able to forget.

-x-

He stands on a battlefield now, flanked by his troops – his freedom fighters – as they stare down their enemy, determination evident in the eyes of everyone present.

But America spares them no thought, for his eyes are locked with the one person who can pose a threat to him, and the one person with the power to destroy him, should that be his ultimate wish.

England is stunning on the battlefield. It is like he had been created specifically for this purpose – to crush the life and resistance from his enemies by the sheer force of his presence alone. America got a glimpse of this once, years ago, outside a tavern in Boston, but nothing could have prepared him for the man himself. England. Not his big brother, not his colonizer, but his enemy – prepared to fight him, and prepared to make him beg for a mercy America isn't sure he deserves. But America is ready, too - he has a new name, _Alfred F. Jones_, and he had delighted in the expression England had bestowed on him when he heard it. A look of anger, pure and unabashed. A glimpse of the man he now knows - and had known for years - as Arthur Kirkland.

Though he aware that England controls much of the world now, he has never believed the tales he hears from France and Prussia - not until now.

"_Angleterre is not someone you tangle with lightly, Amérique."_

"_Pheh, especially not with this sorry lot of soldiers! Even the awesome me is having trouble whipping those farmboys into shape!" France sends Prussia a sharp look, to which the other frowns._

"_He is bred for battle," France continues. "He was created for it. It is his element, and you will be hard-pressed to defeat him once you witness him for what he really is." France smiles at him then, expression strangely reminiscent, contrasting the cold gleam America can see in his eyes. "You will never have a more worthy opponent, Amérique, so savour the victory. It will be a pleasure to see him fall at last."_

And France is right: England is beautiful. Standing there, the tails of his red coat blowing in the wind, his musket slung over his shoulder as he draws his sword, England embodies power and glory. He knows that any of England's men will die without hesitation for their homeland who stands there now, so defiantly, his green eyes locked with America's in a way that makes the former colony simply long as they present a wordless challenge – and a wordless promise.

England will not back down. But neither will he.

So America orders his troops to fire, and wonders when the price for independence started to far outweigh the reward.

-x-

"America, you git, hold on a moment!"

America stops, turning dull blue eyes back to the owner of the voice, and frowning when he sees it is England.

"What, come to tell me what a stupid decision I've made?" America growls. "How there's no way it will work? Another one of my half-brained schemes?"

The meeting has not gone well this day – indeed, it had ended with an argument America would much rather forget, the harsh words of the other countries still filtering through his mind as they voiced their evident displeasure, berating him for once again interfering in the business of other nations. Even Canada had jumped into the fray, yelling at America for his thoughtlessness – "You never think about how this affects others! How it affects _me_! You're so _inconsiderate_, America!"

England, however, had surprised them all by growling the other nations into submission, and America had been shocked by the sudden aura of pure _authority_ that had radiated from the man's slim body, something he had not seen in years. Evidentially, the other nations had been shocked enough into settling back down, especially Spain, who had sat down rather abruptly with a stifled cry of "My Armada!" France had merely inclined his head at England, but he had been the second to return to his seat, for once without any taunts. It seems that he, too, had recognized this particular side of the former superpower. Britannia.

" – wasn't what I was going to say, idiot, not – "

"Why are _you_ supporting me?" America cuts harshly, tucking his folder under his arm. It is a question that has been bothering him for awhile, ever since England had snapped at the meeting "You hate me. You always disagree with anything I say. I thought for sure you'd… you'd withdraw your support, and…" America trails off, shaking his head. But when he finally looks back at England, all he can concentrate on is the bittersweet smile that has appeared on his former guardian's face.

"You idiot. When will you realize that I will always be there to hold you up, no matter what stupid things you do?" And the statement is said which such sad conviction that America can only stare blankly, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open as England shakes his head, turning to walk away. America sees one last flash of green in the dark of the night before England vanishes completely from sight, and his mind instantly flashes back to a time long since passed, where England wore not a black suite and tie, but a brilliant red jacket, glinting with gold buttons – his stance proud and perhaps even a bit arrogant.

And as he stares after England, frozen, all he can think about is the acquiescent expression in the other's eyes, once so proud – eyes that make America long; so green, still pained, even after all this time – and the cheerless smile that had tinged his former guardian's lips.

Later that night, as America returns to his home and bed, he remembers things he has tried his best to forget, and a rush of words, of past promises, come to his mind.

"_I'm here."_

"_I will always support you."_

"_I love you."_

America turns his head then, decision made, slipping out of his bed and moving down the hallway to the kitchen, where he keeps his phone. Picking it up, America dials a very familiar number, one he has long since committed to his memory, though he cannot remember the last time he used it.

He knows what he has to do, something he should have done a long, long time ago.

"Hey, um, England? I've got something I need to talk to you about."

And later, when America finally puts the phone down, he experiences a feeling of warmth such as he has never felt before.

It will take a long time before they feel comfortable enough to call each other close friends, brothers, as they used to do so many years ago; he knows this fact indisputably. But perhaps, with effort, America can once again experience the full of England's affection – not as a _brother,_ but as something far more intimate.

And then, maybe, just maybe, America will be able to see England's eyes rest on him with pride and love once again.

It's a large_ maybe_, but it's a start, and for the first time in a long while, America is content.


End file.
